


thinking of you

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Blood Addiction, Detox, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9576083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: February 17, 2010. Sam struggles with his addiction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Thinking of You_ , track 10 of _Mer de Noms_

_Lying all alone and restless_  
_unable to lose this image;_  
_sleepless, unable to focus on_  
_anything but your surrender_

 

Sam knows that Dean's outside the panic room's door, because he can hear Dean's heart beating. Or—no, that's—

"Dean," he says, "Dean," but there's no answer. He rolls his head against the salt-covered iron of the door, breathes out fast and quick, his chest hurting. When he opens his eyes the light hurts them but he doesn't turn away, just watches the slow rotation of the fan up inside the devil's trap grate. He'd better not get under it. It'll trap him, keep him here, and then what's he supposed to do.

The heart's still beating: loud, fast, frantic. Sam licks his lips, draws his knees up a little, runs his sweaty hands over his thighs. He wants more. That's the problem, of course. He always wants more. "Dean," he says, under his breath, and closes his eyes, presses back as hard as he can against the door to listen. God, it would be—if Dean would just come _in_ —Sam would gather him close, carry him over to the cot, lay him down careful, would pin him to the mattress and pull his knife and cut into his chest, his belly, careful neat slices where Sam's mouth could do the most good, he'd drink and then he'd look up into Dean's pretty green eyes and smile for him, come up and kiss him, show him how good it could be, and then when Dean smiled back, when Dean's eyes went crinkled and happy, showed off that gorgeous glossy black—

He slams his head back against the door, hard, and _fuck_ it hurts but he's got to remember. No. Dean's not a demon. He got out of hell too fast for that—there's no sulfur in his blood. Sam's tasted it. Sam can only hear it when demons' borrowed hearts beat. Why can Sam hear Dean's, then, he wonders, and from the other side of the door there's a scrape, like metal on concrete, and Dean's voice says, "Maybe you've just got really good hearing."

 Sam turns his head against the cold iron, presses his cheekbone hard against it. "Dean," he says, weakly, and there's a _yeah_ in response. Muffled, but there. He's—he's pretty sure it's not just in his head.

"I've been calling," he says, and it's all thick and weird. He draws his knees up higher. "You didn't answer."

There's no response to that, and maybe he shouldn't expect one. It's—really hard to tell. That heartbeat, it's hammering in his ears. A pulse that goes right through him, sets his own blood to beating, heavier and heavier. He'd bite open his own flesh, drink his own blood down, except that he already tried that and it didn't work. Didn't taste right. Tasted like Dean's. Maybe because Dean's his brother—his own heart's blood running twinned through their too-often-separate bodies—or maybe it has something to do with how they're both these _vessels_ , these empty stupid meatsacks with no power of their own. Not really. Just gaping holes, waiting to be filled.

"Sammy?" he hears, and Sam shakes his head hard, opens his eyes so he sees something normal. Bare iron walls. The bed. The jug of water on the table, in case he wants to drink something that isn't red. That pulse is pounding harder in his ears. "Sammy, you gotta say something," he hears, more urgent, and he slams his head back against the door again with a meaty _thunk_ , lets the pain radiate, says, "Dean, tell me that's really you, that I'm not just—" and Dean says, "God—yeah, Sam, it's me," and then Sam's saying, "I can't—you gotta talk to me, please, I can't—I keep hearing—tell me, anything, what are you—what are you doing—"

There's a muttered _fuck_ on the other side of the door and Sam pushes closer, turns and gets up on his knees and puts his hands against it, grinds in where it's icy-cold against his hot wet face, his ear tight to the iron, hurting, and then Dean starts talking, his voice hoarse like he's been crying, or screaming, or getting fucked, and Sam knows that voice, he knows it deep inside better than he knows anything, so he latches on, lets it hum down deep into him, not blocking out the blood but something he can focus on beyond it, and Dean says: _Don't know what you want me to say. I'm just—I'm sittin' here. Got that old chair that's got the wobbly leg, and it's annoying as hell, keeps rockin' back when I don't expect it to. Don't know why Bobby hasn't thrown the damn thing away. Anyway. I'm—uh. Sorry I wasn't here, before. I couldn't, um. You were screaming. Don't know if you remember. I had to—had to go get a drink. Been dying for one. I'd give you some, but figure you better not have anything much stronger than water right now. When you get out we'll have a few beers, right, Sammy? Sammy?_

"Yeah," Sam says, cracked on half a breath, and he's standing, now, still pressed up close to the door, the panic room yawning emptily at his back. He's got his eyes closed, his forehead jammed up against where the little slot opens, where if only Dean would just slide it back he could see him, he could see—but he can imagine it, instead, Dean sitting there with a bottle between his thighs, leaned up on that stupid rickety chair, his head back against the wall. Inches away. God.

"I want—" Sam says, and it's—harsher than he meant, comes out like a lash, and he slams his fist hard against the iron of the door, shudders it on its hinges. "Fuck. _Fuck_ , I want—I want you, I want you in here, Dean, get in here—"

Scrape of metal—Dean's voice, closer, higher, on the other side of the door—"Sammy, I can't," Sam hears, low, pained, and it's a shearing agony to have put it there but what doesn't hurt, right now.

"I know," Sam says, and he does know, but that pulse is still pounding, his own heart thudding high in the back of his throat, making him feverish, making him _want_. He could hurt Dean, like this. More than he already has. "I just—I want—" and he scrapes his nails against the iron, salt crumbling and sticking against his too-hot skin, but he wants—he wants Dean, wants Dean under him, over him, wants to fix everything that he's broken, wants to push himself inside that hollow place inside Dean, the one Sam had suspected was there but couldn't have been sure about, not until Famine laughed over it—and Sam killed him, for that.

"Just a few more hours," Dean's voice says, close and raw, tired. Sam shudders, his bones aching. "Just a few more, Sam, and then I'll—you can come out. Then you'll be okay."

Sam laughs, shakily. He folds his hands together against the door,  grinds his forehead in tight against his knuckles. He was never okay. He knows that Dean knows that. "Okay, Dean," he says, finally. He presses his stomach and hips and thighs up against the door, as close to his brother as he can get, and takes in a slow, deep breath, and listens as the blood thuds in his ears. "You better get me something stronger than a beer, when this is over," he says, and Dean makes a choked sound, not quite a laugh. There's a little knock against the door, quick like a promise. Sam clenches his eyes tight, gulps in breath, and holds on.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156815913609/thinking-of-you)


End file.
